


What Greater Gift

by amarillogrande



Series: Witch!Cas [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, Cats, First Kiss, Gardener Dean Winchester, M/M, Magic, Marriage Contracts, Minor Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester, Mutual Pining, Witch Castiel (Supernatural), Witch Sam Winchester, idiots to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-15 00:20:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19284238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amarillogrande/pseuds/amarillogrande
Summary: Story idea: The most wanted woman in town has announced that she’ll only marry the one who can open her front door with the key around her cat’s neck. Many men try to hunt the cat down, chase and trap it, but to no avail, the cat is simply too quick, smart and clever, and always finds a way to evade and avoid them.You are the first one to figure out the obvious: Do not chase the cat. The cat is befriendable. Get the cat to trust you, to genuinely enjoy your company, and you can hang out with the cat. You may eventually be allowed to touch the cat. The cat will freely let you take the key.From a prompt found on Tumblr. Saw this and I couldn't resist a Destiel AU, and I've been wanting to write Witch!Cas for ages. Link to tumblr prompt will be in the end notes—be forewarned, contains spoilers!





	What Greater Gift

_“What greater gift than the love of a cat?” —Charles Dickens_

  


 

 

Dean sits back on his heels, wiping the sweat from his forehead.

 

It’s absolutely miserable in the greenhouse today, but Dean has to get these fennel seedlings into their new homes before the soil dries out—something it’s threatening to do in the sweltering heat. He works as quickly as he can, wishing for the millionth time he had the ability to cool the greenhouse to a bearable temperature.

 

A low zipping hum rings through the air, signaling someone just walked through the front door. A handy proximity charm Sam rigged up, seeing as Dean is the sole employee of his tiny little shop, and stubbornly has no one managing the register. 

“Be with you in a sec!” He yells over his shoulder.

He transfers the last of the plants, and stands, hastily wiping the dirt from his gloves. He pulls them off and heads toward the blissfully cool indoors. 

“Hi there,” he says, tucking away the gloves into his pocket, turning to greet his customer. “How can I help—”

The greeting withers and dies in his throat. Castiel Novak is standing in front of him, smiling serenely.

“You,” Dean says breathlessly.

 

“Hello,” Castiel rumbles in his low voice. “I need some opal basil leaves and two bunches of lavender. Recently picked, if possible.”

 

He smiles again, like he isn’t their town’s most notorious resident. 

 

It’s no secret that Castiel is a witch, in fact, it’s a point of pride. It’s considered a great honor to have a town witch, and Madame Novak served as theirs for nearly eighty years. So when she died last fall, the entire town was devastated—devastation that very quickly turned into excitement when it was announced that the old estate would be taken by her grandson—the sole heir to her magic and her fortune.

 

Then, of course, there’s the tricky little matter of her will.

 

“Dean?”

 

Dean swallows, jerked back into reality. He realizes it’s been a good ten seconds since Castiel made his request, and Dean’s just been standing here, ogling him like an idiot.

Castiel frowns, looking uncertain.

“It is Dean, isn’t it?”

“Um, yeah,” Dean blurts, wiping his sweaty palms again, simultaneously cursing himself while also wondering how the hell Castiel friggin’ Novak knows his name.

 

He gathers up Castiel’s requests quickly, painfully aware of the dirt staining his knees and sweat-soaked shirt. He just cut the lavender yesterday, and it’s relatively fresh. Dean inhales its comforting scent as he tucks everything into a bag, placing it on the counter.

“Protection spell?” He asks idly as he rings up Castiel’s total. It’s a common and easy concoction Dean’s seen his brother whip up dozens of times. 

“Yes, actually,” Castiel answers, perking up. “You know the arts?”

“Oh, I—no. Not really,” Dean says, averting his eyes and nudging the bag across the counter.

“Oh,” Castiel says, sounding disappointed. 

 

He hands over the amount and Dean awkwardly hands him his change, still not looking at him.

Castiel gives him a forced smile and heads out to the door.

“Have a nice day,” Dean calls lamely.

 

The bell on the door jingles, and Castiel is gone. 

 

Dean sinks his head on the counter. Crap.

 

❧

 

He opens up the door to Charlie’s shop, the noise of the town square disappearing into calm quiet, the air rich with the scent of freshly-baked bread. He drops into a seat at the counter, helping himself to the coffee sitting on the burner.

 

“He hates me.”

 

Charlie pokes her head out from the back.

“Who hates you?”

Dean seizes the sugar and starts dumping it into his coffee, savagely stirring it with a spoon.

“Castiel.”

Charlie closes up the oven door, wiping her hands on her apron as she comes out towards Dean.

“He came into the store again?”

“Yes,” Dean says miserably, dragging a hand down his face.

“That’s gotta be—what.” Charlie shrugs. “Third time this month?”

“Yes”, Dean says, muffled. “And I messed it up. Again.”

 

Charlie flicks him on the ear, and he lifts his head, scowling, but Charlie’s already out of range, pulling open the oven door to check on whatever’s baking inside. Dean turns his attention back to his coffee, blowing on it slightly as he takes a sip. Ugh. Way too sweet.

His gaze wanders over the shop, over the other various quiet patrons sipping their own coffee or reading, and then to the bulletin board near the door. The poster of Castiel’s cat is front and center, slightly wrinkled and faded from age, but the proclamation and the rules beneath it are unchanged as ever. Dean scowls again, and turns away.

 

Stupid Castiel. Stupid mysterious, charming, beautiful Castiel.

 

He was already the most talked-about person before he arrived, but after? Castiel moved in, and by the next day, he had successfully worked his way into the heart of every person in town.

With his kindness, his generosity, and of course, his abilities—he healed Garth’s broken ankle and old Frank’s arthritis in the span of an afternoon—and now he makes a modest living by selling charms and potions to the townsfolk that request them. Then there’s Castiel himself.

Dark hair, perpetually windswept, cryptic blue eyes, and a dazzling smile that Dean’s been fortunate enough to witness once or twice. Castiel had already been the subject of quite a few plays for his affection, but then came the reading of Madame Novak’s will.

A binding contract, one that Castiel had apparently agreed to—he would inherit all her deeds, titles, and magicks—but her one stipulation was that Castiel must marry within a year. If he did not, all his inheritance would be forfeit.

To say the town lost its damn mind would be an understatement. 

 

Castiel was suddenly the most sought-after bachelor in town, and it’s considered a dull day if someone hasn’t proposed to Castiel by noon. The man can’t step foot into the city limits without at least three or four people dogging his steps. Bartholomew keeps sending him gifts, and Daphne, the local weaver, is constantly showering him with clothes. Even their mayor, Hannah, has made a play. At this point, it’s become more of a competition than anything. Who will be the one to finally get the infamous Castiel Novak?

If Dean didn’t know any better, he’d assume that Castiel had placed a Desire enchantment on himself. But the man doesn’t seem the type. He seems to hate the constant attention, embarrassed by it more than anything, and, if Dean’s being honest—Castiel doesn’t need the help of an allure charm.

 

Charlie comes back and mercifully gives him a new cup of coffee, and they drink together, wonderful smells drifting from the kitchen. 

 

“And I just stood there,” Dean explains. “Staring at him like an idiot.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t that bad,” Charlie says sensibly.

“Oh, it was,” Dean mutters. “Everybody wants him—”

“I can guarantee you I don’t,” Charlie interrupts. Dean glares at her. 

“Okay, except for you.” He shakes his head. “He’s constantly fending off suitors and has people fawning over him all the time—I bet now he thinks I’m one of them.”

Charlie sets her cup down, eyeing him slyly.

“Are you?” She asks.

“Of course not,” Dean says airily. “I refuse to be part of that. No one should be forced to get married.”

 

Charlie rolls her eyes patiently, and pushes herself up to check on the oven.

“An old-fashioned idea,” Dean mumbles.

“Well, the woman was nearly three hundred years old,” Charlie says, pulling out a tray of perfect steaming rolls. 

“Marry someone just to keep his magic,” Dean muses. “Can’t imagine what that’s like.”

Charlie pulls off her oven mitt, tossing it on the counter.

“So ask him.”

 

Dean looks at her.

“What?”

“Ask him,” she says again. “If you wanna know so bad.”

Dean blinks.

“Are you kidding?”

“No.” Charlie turns back to her rolls. “You wonder, so ask.”

 

Dean stares at her for a moment, wondering if she’s lost her mind. Her hair is in a crazy bun and there’s a streak of flour on her cheek, so she certainly looks the part.

“No, man, I can’t—I can’t even seem to talk to him, y’know? My stomach ties itself in knots and I trip over my words and—”

Dean trails off, sighing.

“I don’t know.”

 

Charlie wipes her hands, shrugging.

“Well, if he ends up marrying Bartholomew, Granny will be out of luck in continuing the bloodline,” she says matter-of-factly.

“The fact that Castiel has to give up his freedom just to satisfy some old bat is ridiculous,” Dean mutters.

“I actually quite liked my grandmother.”

 

Dean whips around, nearly knocking his coffee off the counter.

“Castiel,” he stammers.

 

Castiel has a box under one arm, his bag from his visit to Dean’s store in his other hand. 

Charlie smirks, looking between the pair of them.

 

Dean leans back, aiming for casual and landing somewhere closer to constipated.

“What are you—what are you doing here?” 

“I tend to try to get all my chores done at once,” Castiel says, a slight wry note in his voice. 

He moves past Dean, to the counter.

“Hello, Charlie. A loaf of multigrain and a half dozen bagels, please.”

“You got it,” Charlie says. “Cinnamon raisin?”

“Of course,” Castiel says, smiling.

 

Charlie starts putting together his order, and Castiel idly taps his fingers against the counter, the runic tattoos on his arms shining in the warm light. Dean doesn’t speak to him again, instead trying his best to squish himself as far as possible into his seat. After a few more agonizing moments, Charlie returns and Castiel gets his bagels, politely bidding her goodbye. 

 

Charlie crosses her arms once he leaves, giving him a pointed look.

 

“Smooth, Dean.”

 

Dean flips her off.

 

❧

 

That night, Dean is walking home after closing up the store, nibbling on a few leftover pastries, courtesy of Charlie. He turns the corner, and stops abruptly. 

There, sitting in the soft glow of a streetlamp, is the cat.

 

Dean stares, and it stares right back.

 

All black, with a few faint white markings, and electric blue eyes, unblinkingly fixed on Dean.

He slowly lowers his hand, trying not to spook it. 

 

It didn’t take Castiel long to get sick of all the proposals, and that’s when the signs went up.

To satisfy his grandmother’s demands (and to get rid of the crowd of admirers), Castiel declared he would marry—just not through the usual means. He would hang a key to his front door around his cat’s neck, and whoever opened the door with that key would win the right to Castiel’s hand.

Even now, Dean can see the slim silver key, shimmering in the glow of the streetlight. 

 

He has to hand it to Castiel, honestly. A clever solution to his suitor problem. For the most part, they leave Castiel alone now, all their efforts solely focused on the cat. But Dean doubts Castiel will be announcing an engagement anytime soon, because no one can seem to get near the damn thing.

Bartholomew has been setting up traps for weeks, all at different times of the day. Dean’s never seen them catch anything, except for a foul-tempered squirrel and a particuarly stupid pigeon.  The cat is simply too quick, and always finds a way to rid them of their tempting treats without springing the trap itself. Charlie said she once saw Crowley sprinting across the town square trying to get the cat, but it got away. It always gets away.

 

Dean shifts his bag, smiling.

“Hey there, fella,” he says softly. 

He makes a slight move towards it, kneeling down—but the second he moves, the cat bolts, disappearing into the darkness.

 

Dean chuckles, shaking his head, and heads home.

 

❧

 

“I need some milk thistle and dragon’s blood resin.”

Dean’s elbow nearly slips off the counter.

 

He stands quickly, clutching the book he had been reading tight to his chest.

“Castiel,” he blurts. “Hello.”

“Hello,” Castiel returns. “Apologies if I startled you.”

“No, it’s um—” Dean waves a hand, trying to think of something clever to say, then decides against it. “Slow day. Dragon’s blood, you said?”

“Yes,” Castiel replies. “I’m afraid my stock is running low.”

“Alright—uh, gimme a second.”

 

Dean turns, setting the book aside and running through the bottles on the shelf behind him. He finds the resin and sets it on the counter, before going to cut the thistle.

“You’re lucky I have that,” Dean says once he comes back, indicating the resin.

“Of course you do,” Castiel says, pulling out his wallet. 

Dean pauses.

“What?”

Castiel raises one shoulder in a half-shrug.

“You have a reputation too, you know.”

Dean colors. He coughs, quickly glancing down, fingers clumsy as he wraps up Castiel’s order.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Castiel continues, because Dean can’t catch a fucking break. “Otherwise I’d be quite at a loss. It’s rare to find a place that carries what I need.”

Dean sneaks a glance. Castiel is looking around at the colorful sights and smells of Dean’s shop, nodding in admiration. 

“You….don’t have a garden on the property?” Dean asks tentatively.

“Oh no, there is.” Castiel chuckles slightly. “I’m afraid I just manage to kill everything in it. Plants are the one thing that do not respond to me.”

A nearby taro plant shrinks back slightly, ruffling its leaves. Dean throws it a glare before looking back to Castiel.

“I guess I’m the opposite.”

Castiel turns, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh?” 

Dean wants to tell him. Wants to tell him that despite his mother having the gift, Dean was never touched with it. Sam has his visions and his charms, but Dean is left in the realm of mortals. He wants to tell Castiel that’s why he started his store. To support those who may need his supplies for their white magic and crafty arts, and for a source of beauty for those who do not.

But no. He told himself he’d keep a respectful and appropriate distance. This is a business transaction, nothing more.

“Um.” Dean coughs. “Green thumb.”

 

He finishes up Castiel’s order and hands him the bag.

“Thank you, Dean,” Castiel says softly. “I appreciate it.”

 

He turns, leaving far too much money on the counter. 

Dean frowns, calling after him.

“Castiel, wait—”

But he’s already gone.

 

❧

 

“First is Incantations, but that’s gonna be no problem.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And then my exam on Curses and Hexes is next Thursday, and then I’m done.”

Dean sets down his watering can, kneeling in the dirt.

“You’re gonna ace it, Sammy.” He grins. “Or did I jinx you by saying that?”

Sam’s bitchface is palpable even through the surface of the scrying glass.

“You always say that joke and it’s never funny.”

Dean mock-scoffs.

“Screw you, I’m hilarious.”

 

He leans forward and briefly checks on the cactuses, because even if they aren’t particularly magical, succulents are all the rage, apparently, and are his most popular sellers. He jostles the glass as he sits back, and he hears Sam groan.

“Can’t you put me down?” He asks. “I’m getting dizzy.”

“It’s called multitasking, Sammy,” Dean retorts.

But he obliges him, and props the scrying glass up on a planter box, positioning it so they can still talk while Dean checks on his seedlings.

 

Sam continues his rundown, and Dean listens patiently, pulling some of the sparse weeds that have already started to sprout.

“And then it’s Eileen’s birthday next week, so we’re having a party for her.”

“Oh yeah.” Dean glances over. “How is Eileen anyway?”

“Good.” Sam laughs. “Her grades are even better than mine.”

Dean smiles.

“Your kid is gonna be one hell of a witch,” he says cheekily.

Sam colors.

“Dean.”

Dean smirks, raising his hands.

“Hey, I just call ‘em like I see ‘em.”

 

He lets Sam chew on that one for a bit, giving the seedlings a bit of water.

“Well, what about you?” Comes Sam’s question, after a moment. Dean furrows his brow.

“What about me?”

Sam shrugs.

“You still moping over that….what was his name? Castle?”

Dean knocks over his watering can.

 

He curses and scrambles to pick it up, thanking the stars he managed not to soak the seedlings. The same can’t be said for his clothes, however.

“What? No—I, no,” Dean scoffs. “Why the hell would you say that?”

Sam is the one smirking now, eyeing Dean’s soaked jeans.

“No reason,” he says innocently.

Dean huffs, dabbing at his jeans with the hem of his shirt.

“His name,” he says snottily, “is Castiel. And I do _not_ like him.”

 

The proximity charm suddenly sounds, ringing through the greenhouse.

 

Dean looks at the mess he made of his clothes and swears again.

“Talk to you later, Sammy,” he says, standing and reaching for the scrying glass. Sam snorts.

“Fine. But don’t think you’re getting out this conversation.”

The glass goes black and Dean tucks it away into his pocket.

 

He stands and quickly heads to the front, stopping when he finds the store empty. 

 

“Hello?”

 

Dean does a circuit around the entire place, but doesn’t see anybody. Frowning, he heads back towards the greenhouse. 

He’s passing by the creeper vines, which try to grab him on the way past, like they do about fifty times a day—when he hears the charm again.

Dean may not have his brother’s powers, but he’s not without training. Hunting for years with his father gave him a very good ear, an ability to notice things. He scolds the vines and moves away from them, standing at the entrance of the greenhouse, just listening.

To the left, a slight rustling sound.

 

Dean moves quickly, rounding the corner—and immediately spies the intruder. 

The second it sees Dean, it leaps up and away, out the open window, black tail whipping out of sight. 

Dean huffs, kneeling to right the pot of dittany the cat knocked over.

 

“You break it, you buy it!” He yells.

 

❧

 

Dean hums slightly to himself as he sets up by the stove, getting everything ready for dinner. 

He had to learn how to cook early, taking care of Sam and himself from such an early age, but as he’s gotten older he’s really started to master it, even growing his own vegetables in the greenhouse. He’s working on dicing up some tomatoes now, sliding them from the cutting board into the pot so they can start to cook. 

He turns the heat up high, pausing when he hears a noise.

 

_Scratch scratch._

 

It’s coming from the back door. Dean walks over, opening it and looking through the screen.

It’s the cat.

 

“Um. Hello.” Dean peers at it. “What do you want?”

It just meows and scratches again. Dean huffs a sigh, propping open the screen door.

“You know, if you keep doing that, I’ll have to—”

The second the door is wide enough, the cat rushes in through the gap, and immediately hops up onto his table.

 

Dean turns, scowling.

“Whoa, hey—c’mon,” he says, waving his hands at it. "You can’t be up there.”

The cat turns and gives him such a withering stare that Dean caves almost instantly.

“Okay, fine.” He holds up his hands. “Just don’t get near my stove.”

 

He turns away, purposefully ignoring the cat as he digs through his cupboards for what he needs. Behind him, the cat meows plaintively.

“What?” Dean says, shutting the cupboard. “I’m making dinner.”

The cat meows again. Dean snorts.

“If you’re looking for food, go begging somewhere else.”

The cat just looks at him.

“You wouldn’t like this anyway,” Dean says, brandishing the box. “Cats don’t eat pasta.”

The cat sits back on its hind legs, twitching its tail. Dean waves a dismissive hand.

“Well, you can just sit there,” he says. “I have things to do.”

 

Dean continues preparing his dinner, hyperaware of the cat’s presence. It sniffs around his table, then hops down, looking around the rest of his kitchen while still keeping his distance from Dean. At one point, it wanders away, disappearing into the rest of Dean’s house.

Dean stubbornly stays at the stove, testing the sauce every so often.

He’s starting on the ground beef when the cat comes back.

 

Dean glances over his shoulder.

“Done exploring, are you?”

It twitches its tail again, then jumps up next to the stove, sniffing in interest. 

“Guess there’s no point in telling you to get down,” Dean says dryly.

The cat meows in response. Dean sighs.

“You got a name?” 

He looks, and there’s the key of course, hanging on a simple twine thread. But there’s no sign of any sort of tag or collar.

Dean shrugs.

“Suppose I can just call you Cat.”

 

The tomato sauce and pasta is ready, so Dean grabs the pan of beef, about to tip it in, when Cat lets out another loud meow. Dean pauses, glancing over.

“What, this?”

He plucks a bit from the pan and holds it out, but Cat immediately shies back, eyes narrowed. 

 

Dean holds up his other hand.

“Easy,” he says. “Just thought you wanted to try.”

Cat is still looking at him with suspicion, so Dean drops the beef on the counter, taking a step back.

Slowly, Cat pads forward, settling himself down in front of the beef and quickly eating it up. Dean smiles, shaking his head.

 

He pulls another plate from the cabinet and loads it up, placing it on the opposite end of the table before serving himself. He sits down, and after a moment, Cat leaps up onto the table and sits opposite him, enjoying his little plate of beef.

 

When it’s done, Cat sits back on its haunches, and starts giving itself a bath, licking its paw and swiping it up and over its ears.

Dean shakes his head, propping his cheek on his hand.

“I’m crazy. I just had dinner with a cat.”

Cat pauses in its cleaning, giving Dean a haughty look. He holds up a hand, acquiescing. 

“Alright, alright. I know you’re much more than that.”

Cat tucks its tail around its legs, tilting its head slyly. Those blue eyes watch Dean, tracking his every move.

Dean’s not lying. He may not have inherited his mother’s magic, but he can still sense things. This is no ordinary cat.

 

“Must be the life, huh?” Dean folds his hands, leaning his elbows on the table. “Running around town being the mysterious familiar.”

Cat blinks slowly, just looking at him. Dean smirks.

“See?” He says. “I know things.”

 

For a moment, they’re both still—but then Cat gets up, slowly approaching him. Dean doesn’t dare move, for fear of spooking it again. He has no designs, no intention to try to capture the cat, or to snatch the key. All the same, he keeps his distance, simply holding out his palm.

 

Cat stops for a moment, just looking at him—then darts forward, rubbing its head briefly against Dean’s hand.

Then he jumps away and out the open screen door before Dean can do anything else.

 

❧

 

Dean starts leaving little treats outside his door, as well as a bowl of water.

It’s always gone in the morning.

 

Cat spends most evenings with Dean now. It’s always the same. Dean leaves the back door open, and the cat will come and go as he pleases. He’ll keep Dean company in the greenhouse, in the front of the store, or as he does chores around the house. Dean finds himself talking more and more freely to the cat, about everything and nothing. He doesn’t really have too many friends outside of Charlie, who already knows everything about him, and Sam—who Dean loves, but barely sees, since he lives so far away. More than once, Dean decides he’s crazy that his best confidante is now furry and four-legged, even voicing this opinion aloud to Cat. Cat always answers him with a consoling meow and purrs, bumping Dean’s hand for an ear scratch.  

Sometimes they’ll both be on the couch, on opposite ends, of course—because even if Cat will let Dean pet him now, he’s never let Dean hold him—and Dean will talk about his fears, about seeing his mom when he dreams, how he’s worried he and Sam will drift apart, and that while he doesn’t mind being alone, he does worry about being lonely. 

Sometimes he jokes about getting a cat of his own. Dean can’t really tell, but Cat never seems thrilled with the idea.

 

“Does Castiel know you come here?” Dean asks one night.

 

Cat is dozing lazily on the far end of the couch, but his eyes open at the sound of Dean’s voice. 

“He must,” Dean continues. “‘Cause he’s definitely saving money on feeding you.”

Cat blinks, in a way Dean can’t help but think of as smug.

“Guess he thinks you’re hunting your food.”

 

He leans back, taking a sip of beer. 

“I’d ask him, but haven’t seen him around lately,” he says, trying to ignore the pang those words send through him. “And I always seem to make a complete fool of myself when I do, so.”

He sighs, looking over at Cat.

“He alright in that big house up there?”

Cat doesn’t respond, but he does sit up, stretching his paws out in front of him, flexing his claws. Dean supposes that’s a yes.

“What does he have—two months left?”

 

Cat suddenly goes very still, but Dean doesn’t notice. He shakes his head. 

“Poor guy.”

Cat sits back, watching Dean intently.

“Crazy he felt he had to resort to this plan in the first place,” Dean muses. “I guess he just wanted people to leave him alone.”

He twists his lip, thinking.

"But did he really think he wouldn’t be able to meet someone on his own? For love?” 

Cat doesn’t move. Dean sighs.

“It’s still possible, I guess.”

He can’t help the strange sinking feeling he gets at that thought. 

 

Then he shakes himself, and looks over at Cat, smirking.

“Just don’t let Bartholomew catch you,” he jokes, nudging him with his foot. Cat meows and playfully bats at his shoelace.

 

❧

 

It’s now been exactly twenty-three days since Dean has seen Castiel.

 

Nothing unusual there—Castiel’s never been exactly regular with what he needs for his various charms or potions—but Cat has also stopped showing up.

Despite himself, Dean gets a little worried. 

No one’s caught Cat, he’s certain of it—he’d have heard about it already if that were the case. Yet Dean catches himself constantly checking the back door, biting back disappointment when he wakes up to see the dishes outside untouched. 

He’d bring up his concerns to Charlie, of course, but there’s only so many smug insinuations he can handle. Sam is the better bet. Perhaps he can even do a locating spell for him.

 

Dean lifts the scrying glass from its place on the wall, and rubs the shiny surface, tapping the side. Usually the glass wakes as soon as he touches it, but for some reason it remains black, unresponsive in his hands.

Dean frowns. 

He rubs it again. He taps it. He even shakes it for good measure. 

Still nothing.

 

Dean groans, because he knows what this means. His scrying glass is no longer working. 

And there’s only one person in town who can fix it.

 

❧

 

Dean walks up to the wrought iron gate, stopping just outside.

 

From this distance, the house is intimidating, all gaunt windows and sharp angles. Dean takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly.

He opens the gate.

 

The second Dean passes through, it’s like the very air around him changes, thick and charged with power. Even the ground beneath him responds, leaves whispering over the grass.

Dean walks up the cobbled path towards the front door, determined to get in and get out—but can’t help slowing as he passes a withered garden, most of the poor plants brown and wilting—just as Castiel reported. 

Dean kneels down next to a hydrangea plant that's seen better days, lifting a drooping branch. Not enough water, and shallow soil. Easily fixable, with the right expertise.

He’s checking on a particularly sad looking peppermint plant when he hears the front door swing open.

Dean straightens quickly, stepping back onto the path. 

 

“Dean,” Castiel says. He looks slightly tired, but unsurprised to see him. His property must also have a proximity charm.

“Sorry, I, um—” Dean coughs, sticking his hands in his jacket pockets. “You said your garden needed some help, and I—”

He closes his eyes briefly, then opens them.

“Hi.”

“Hello,” Castiel replies. 

 

He glances over at the dying plants, then back to Dean, an amused note in his voice.

“You came just to look at my dead garden?”

“No, actually—”

Dean goes up the few steps, pulling the scrying glass from his pocket. Castiel’s expression shifts instantly, and he holds out his hands.

“May I?”

Dean hands it over, and steps back, chewing his lip. Castiel tilts the glass in his hands, gentle and careful.

“This is an extraordinary piece of work,” he murmurs.

“My brother’s,” Dean says, with a note of pride. “But it seems to have stopped working.”

If Castiel’s surprised, he doesn’t show it. Instead he looks up, gesturing.

 

“Come on in.”

 

Dean has many ideas about what a witch’s house might look like. Castiel’s fits none of them.

Despite its intimidating outer appearance, inside, it looks mostly like his own. A kitchen, a living room, simply decorated, only the occasional pentacle and bundle of herbs to indicate Castiel’s tendencies.

 

“Feel free to sit.”

 

Castiel beckons Dean back towards his workspace, and this—oh. This is what Dean was expecting.

Potion bottles of every size, scrolls littered with ancient-looking words, and a stack of spellbooks piled so high, they almost brush the ceiling. Dean seats himself in a squashy armchair by the books, wincing when the stack teeters dangerously.

Castiel sits at his desk, scrutinizing the object in his hands. He pulls a magnifying glass towards him, peering closer at the inscription in the brass.

“Your brother made this, you say?” He asks.

“Yes,” Dean says. “He doesn't live here, though.”

Castiel looks up. 

“He’s a witch?”

Dean nods. 

“Oh,” Castiel says. 

 

He’s too polite to ask, but the question hangs heavy in the air. Dean bites his lip. Screw it.

“Not me, though. Powers skipped me.”

“But you’re used to—” Castiel gestures around him. “All this.”

Dean shrugs.

“Guess so.”

After a moment, Dean chances a glance up. Castiel is looking at him strangely, in a way Dean really can’t describe. Then he seems to shake himself, and abruptly turns back to the glass.

Assuming Castiel prefers silence, Dean doesn’t try to start a conversation again, instead occupying himself by looking around. 

 

After a few minutes, Castiel speaks.

“Ah.”

He taps the brass. 

“Here’s your problem.”

Castiel moves the magnifying glass for Dean to see.

“One of the runes of the spell somehow was scratched off,” Castiel explains, pointing. “That allowed the djinn inside to escape.”

Dean twists his fingers.

“You wouldn’t mind fixing it, would you? I haven’t talked to my brother in a while.” Dean digs in his pocket, pulling out a few coins. “I have money.”

 

Castiel blinks, like the thought of payment never even crossed his mind.

“Of course,” he says, suddenly all business. “Give me a moment.”

 

Dean watches for a moment, but after a while he stands, slipping his hands into his pockets, wandering towards the kitchen. The windows are open, and there’s a faint smell of honeysuckle in the air. And to think it’s just Castiel, on his own here.

At least he’s got Cat to keep him company.

 

Dean looks around, but doesn’t see any sign of him. In fact, Dean doesn’t see any sort of evidence of a cat. No toys, no dishes, nothing.

 

“It’s finished.”

Dean turns. Castiel stands and comes over to him, holding the scrying glass.

“Thanks.”

He gestures over his shoulder.

“I was looking around for your cat.”

 

Castiel pauses.

“Oh?”

 

Dean can tell he’s trying to sound casual, so he quickly shakes his head.

“No, I mean—he’s been hanging around my greenhouse lately. But I haven’t seen him in a few days. Just was wondering where he’d gotten to.”

“Oh. Yes.” Castiel shifts. “He….comes and goes as he pleases.”

“Yeah, I figured.” Dean laughs slightly. “It can’t be easy getting chased after all the time.”

“No,” Castiel says softly. “It certainly isn’t.”

 

There’s a moment of silence.

“Well. Here you are, Dean,” Castiel murmurs.

 

Dean reaches out to take it, and is struck suddenly by how tired Castiel looks. He suspected it before, but up close, the man looks exhausted. There are dark circles under his eyes, and the tattoos that signal his power look almost faded, duller than usual.

“You okay, Castiel?” Dean asks.

Castiel looks for a moment like he might equivocate, try to deny it—then his shoulders slump, and he sighs heavily.

“It’s getting….harder, as the time draws nearer,” he says, one hand rubbing over the sigils on his arm. “My magic is fading.”

 

Dean swallows. And he just asked the guy to perform a complicated spell for him. Which he did anyway.

“I’m sorry, Castiel, I—I didn’t know.”

 

Castiel shakes his head, turning away. Dean holds the scrying glass tight, the brass edge cutting into his palm.

“How much time you got?” He asks quietly.

Castiel lets out a slow breath.

“Three more weeks,” he murmurs. 

 

He sits heavily down on his workbench, rubbing a hand over his forehead.

“Sometimes I think I should just let my powers fade,” he says softly.

Then he lets out a cynical laugh, shaking his head.

“Then at least I’d be left alone,” he mutters. “No one will want me once I have nothing to offer.”

 

Dean can’t think of how to respond to that. Castiel looks so broken, so defeated.

 

He takes a deep breath.

“Castiel.”

 

Castiel looks up.

“Not for nothing,” Dean says. “But I think even without your magic….you got plenty to offer.”

 

Castiel’s eyes widen, and he just _stares_ at Dean, hopeless, lost, awed.

 

Dean turns and flees before he can respond.

 

❧

 

“Stupid, stupid—should never have gone there in the first place.”

 

He didn’t even try to contact Sam through the glass to see if Castiel’s charm worked. He realizes Castiel never let him pay either.

“Goddammit,” Dean mutters, digging his thumbs into his forehead.

Show up at the guy’s house, demand magic from him, then bring up the fact that he’s losing said magic. Real smart, Dean. What happened to that respectful and appropriate distance?

 

He throws the scrying glass onto his bed and goes straight for the elderflower wine.

 

Dean’s already half a bottle deep when he hears the yowling from outside.

He stumbles over to the window, peering outside, and curses.

 

The cry comes again, and banging on his screen door. Dean cracks open the back door, scowling.

“Go away.”

Cat meows petulantly, sitting back on his hind legs. Dean sighs.

“Look go bother someone else, okay?” He waves a hand. “I’m not the guy you want.”

Cat starts yowling again, scratching repeatedly at the screen.

“Stop that.”

Cat ignores him, and the racket gets worse.

“Look—will you—”

Dean opens the door and the cat bolts inside. 

 

“Hey!”

 

Dean tries to follow—but Cat weaves in between his legs, nearly tripping him, still crying loudly.

“Okay, that does it—”

Dean scoops up the cat and holds him up, glaring into his eyes.

“Can it, would you??”

 

_Finally_ , Cat shuts up. He glares back at Dean, silent.

 

Dean realizes that this is the first time he’s really been allowed to hold Cat. But he isn’t squirming or trying to get free. He’s just watching Dean, waiting.

The key is there, right for the taking. It’s almost as if Cat wants him to.

Then Dean shakes his head.

“No, Cat. I’m not taking the key.”

 

He gently sets him down, but Cat leaps right back up onto the table, letting out a meow that sounds very accusatory.

“Look,” Dean says. “Me and Castiel are never happening, alright? I tried and it was, just—”

He takes a deep breath, letting it just all spill out.

“He doesn’t even know me,” he says, shaking his head. “He comes into the shop, sure, but I’m—I’m ordinary. I’m ordinary and he’s incredible and doesn’t deserve to be hounded after like this, like he’s some sort of _prize_ to be won, it’s sick! And you’re not helping by being a part of this,” he says, pointing a finger at Cat.

Cat just sits back, watching him.

“If I take that key, it means I’d be forcing him to be with me,” Dean says. “I’d never do that to him.”

He wanders over to the couch, dropping himself down. 

“Besides, we can’t seem to be able to even _talk_ to each other, and I just—”

Cat approaches him slowly, pausing just by his feet. Dean rubs his forehead, sighing.

“Just—leave me alone, alright? Let me wallow in peace.”

 

Instead, Cat leaps up onto the couch next to him. Dean frowns.

“Hey. What are you doing?”

Cat ignores him and climbs onto Dean’s lap, circling a few times before settling in, purring.

“C’mon, man,” Dean protests weakly. “Then I can’t get up.”

Cat ignores him, nuzzling in closer. Dean huffs.

“Alright, alright.” He pets Cat, scratching his ears, causing him to purr louder. “Stubborn bastard.”

 

The room is warm and Cat is soft, and Dean allows himself to be lulled into drowsiness—letting his eyes slip closed.

 

“Don’t think this changes anything,” he says to Cat, before he drops off to sleep.

 

❧

 

Dean wakes up, but he doesn’t want to open his eyes.

 

There’s a heavy, warm weight on his chest, and Dean shifts underneath it, trying to get comfortable.

“Man, Cat," he mumbles. "You’re heavy."

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  

Dean yells and kicks out, making contact with something that lets out a yelp and hits the ground with a muffled _thump_.

 

 

Dean bolts up, scrambling to look over the side of the couch.

“ _Castiel?”_

 

Castiel Novak is on his floor, sleep-rumpled and perfect, and—

And _holy hell_ —there’s a silver key, hanging from a cord around his neck.

 

Dean stares at him, not comprehending.

“Cat?” He stutters out.  

Castiel sits up, smiling sheepishly.

“Cat,” Dean repeats. “Cas.” 

He blinks, once, twice. 

“Oh my god,” he mutters, sinking his face in his hands.

 

 

Castiel shifts, moving closer.

“Dean—”

“This whole time, you’ve been—”

Dean cuts off, unable to speak. The things he said, the things he told him—he was a _cat_ —

Castiel turns his hands up in apology, his voice soft.

“My mother taught me how to shift when I was very young,” he says. “I’ve had some time to practice.”

 

Dean’s still processing _that_ bombshell of a sentence when Castiel kneels at his feet, looking up at him imploringly. 

“Dean,” Castiel says softly. “I’m sorry. I never meant to trick you or lie to you.”

He looks so earnest, so sincere, and Dean can't help but believe him.

“Then why?” He asks. Castiel looks down, twisting his hands together.

 

“I’m….not very good with conversation,” he murmurs. “Or with people. I thought that was obvious, given my solution to the whole—suitor thing,” he admits, smiling slightly. “And how all my attempts to flirt with you failed.”

Dean blinks at him.

“You were flirting with me?”

Castiel looks up, his lips turning up slightly.

“Dean, I’ve been trying to flirt with you ever since I walked into your store for the first time.” He huffs softly, shaking his head. “I’m obviously terrible at it.”

 

Dean stares at Castiel in wonder. He had always been so focused on his own inability to say anything when Castiel was around—he never once thought Castiel might have felt the same.

“So I thought….if you came to know me in this form, then you would want to know more about me,” Castiel confesses. “And the key—well.” 

He shrugs.

“Some part of me hoped you’d try to go after it. But when you refused it last night, I realized.”

He looks up at Dean, finding his eyes.

“You’re the one for me,” Castiel says softly.

 

Dean can hardly think. His pulse is racing, yet he feels oddly calm. There's a strange feeling building inside him, a desperate, aching _hope_.

“We barely know each other,” he stammers out. "I don't...."

Castiel reaches out, takes his hand, and Dean's excuse dies in his throat.

 

 

“I know you are kind,” Castiel says softly. “I know you care deeply for your family, and for your friends.” He smiles. “And I know that you’re not like the others.”

He slowly turns Dean’s hand over in his own, thumb tracing down the center of his palm.

“Most people only wanted that key for my magic and my money. You wanted me,” Castiel says simply.

Dean watches him, breathless. He knows he should probably feel betrayed, feel like his trust has been violated—but he doesn’t. 

 

Instead, he brings one hand up to cup Castiel’s cheek. Castiel immediately turns into the touch, but he holds Dean’s gaze.The intensity of his focus is unlike anything Dean’s ever experienced, but he wouldn’t look away for the world. 

 

“You’re anything but ordinary, Dean,” Castiel says softly, and Dean’s breath hitches. “You’re incredible.”

 

Dean doesn’t remember deciding to move. All he knows is that he grips Castiel’s hand tightly, pulling him up—

And then he’s kissing him. Castiel makes a small noise of surprise, but then melts into it, soft lips warm against his. His other hand comes to grip Dean’s shirt, and he breathes his name into his mouth, secretive and soft.

 

Dean feels Castiel’s smile before he sees it, and they break apart, unable to hold back—happiness bubbling up into soft laughter that Castiel returns as his arms circle around Dean, pressing his forehead gently against his.

“Damn,” Dean whispers. “Couple of dumbasses, huh?”

 

Castiel chuckles.

“I think I prefer 'oblivious'."

 

Dean’s hand drifts, tracing over Castiel’s cheek and his neck, hooking a finger around the key’s cord.

“Guess this is mine now.”

Castiel smiles.

“Once you open the door, I’m yours.”

Dean fiddles idly with the key.

“And that’ll satisfy the will?”

Castiel laughs.

“We might have to say a ritual or two. But I’ll be allowed to keep my magic.”

He takes Dean’s hands again, looking up into his eyes.

“If you’ll have me,” he says softly.

 

Dean twists his lips, pretending to think about it.

“I don’t know….three weeks seems pretty fast.”

Castiel answers him with a mischievous smile.

“We better get started, then.”

 

 

Deans answering laugh is bright, and Castiel leans forward to kiss it off his lips.

**Author's Note:**

> Original tumblr post: [x](https://haaskarotta.tumblr.com/post/184616003264/story-idea-the-most-wanted-woman-in-town-has)


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